


Burnt Tomatoes

by Artemis1000



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Brothers, Family, Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-04
Updated: 2012-05-04
Packaged: 2017-11-04 19:44:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/397521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Artemis1000/pseuds/Artemis1000
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are some things you shouldn’t have to return home to. Learning that your brother’s cooking skills have degenerated to England’s is high on Romano’s list.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Burnt Tomatoes

In Romano’s opinion, there were a few things you simply shouldn’t return home to.

The potato bastard making himself at home as if he owned the place was one of these things, but that situation was quickly resolved and usually left Romano feeling grimly satisfied. Well, it would if dumb little Veneziano wouldn’t insist on sulking every single time. Romano knew that it was their house, he wasn’t stupid. Still didn’t mean he had to put up with Veneziano’s asshole friends. If Veneziano didn’t like it, he was welcome to do the same next time Spain came over to pester Romano.

Veneziano running around in a turkey suit – complete with wings made from real feathers – was next on that list, but they had agreed to never ever speak of it.

When Romano stomped up the path to their house only to be assaulted by the horrible smell of burnt food before he had even opened the door, he decided it was time to add another item to his list. His nose twitched, he gave the house a suspicious look and opened the door cautiously, just in case of… Well, he wasn’t sure in case of what, but it never hurt to be careful.

Dark smoke wafted towards him.

Now let it be noted that Romano didn’t panic, screaming his head off about fire like Veneziano would have done.

No. He was a smart nation. He was also somewhat of a clumsy cook, not that he would ever admit it, not even under pain of death. Romano was a good cook, but accidents happened to the best of cooks. Everyone except Veneziano, of course, who was so fucking perfect it made you sick.

He dropped his keys on the sideboard, hung up his coat and slowly made his way towards the epicenter of the foul-smelling dark cloud.

Romano made it exactly two steps into the kitchen before the shock immobilized him.

The kitchen looked like a battleground.

Used pots and pans, plates and cutlery covered every available surface, the trash bin was still open and spilling over with something dark and gooey. Scattered between the used kitchenware were cut fruits, already brown and shriveled. The earthenware jar in which they kept their flour was on the ground, broken, its contents were spilled all over the tiles. A cookbook laid in the corner.

The most shocking sight, however, was his brother. Veneziano sat hunched over the kitchen table and was sobbing his eyes out. He looked a right mess, his apron splattered with all kinds of undecipherable stains and a generous dusting of flour, just like his hair.

“Idiot! Why did you let England use our kitchen?” Their bosses had bullied them several times into accepting England’s invitations to home-cooked meals and he was the only one Romano thought capable of committing such crimes against humanity and good taste. He would be damned if he could figure out why England had come all the way to Italy to wreck their kitchen, though.

Veneziano looked up with large, reddened eyes and immediately started sobbing even more brokenly. He looked like he’d been crying for a while.

Romano sighed explosively and joined his brother to give his hair a harsh tug. “Hey, bastard! Answer me when I ask you a question!”

With a broken-hearted wail, Veneziano threw himself into his arms and… Yes, exactly. He continued to sob his little heart out. Romano snorted derisively. So what if he hugged him back? He just didn’t want Veneziano to fall and have yet another reason to whine. That kiss he brushed against his hair? The awkwardly mumbled, “Stop crying, Vene.” Nothing but selfishness. Veneziano was ruining a perfectly good shirt with his tears.

It took him a while, but he managed to maneuver them into a more comfortable position, with him on a chair and Veneziano, still clinging to him, on his lap.

There was a pot of burnt tomato abomination on the table that made Romano want to cry, too.

“Now tell me whose legs I have to break for this,” he murmured as he ran his hands soothingly over Veneziano’s back.

“It’s terrible, Romano!” Veneziano looked at him with terrified eyes and he looked so haunted that Romano felt his stomach clench in a manner that had nothing to do with the nauseating stench. “I…” His voice broke, he sniffled loudly, but he mustered his courage and tried again. “I… Oh Romano! I can’t cook!”

Romano’s hands clenched into fists around the fabric of Veneziano’s shirt. It took all his self-control not to shove his little brother off his lap and stalk out of the room, the house, the whole country. “Fine, keep your fucking secrets!”

“It’s not…” Veneziano whimpered softly and hid his face against his shoulder again. His shoulders shook. “It’s true, Roma! I can’t cook anymore!”

There could be no doubt about it that Veneziano was a dumb little idiot. However, there were a few things that were simply too serious to Italian nations to joke about them.

“So you throw it away and start over. It happens to all of us.” Romano winced. He had aimed for irritated, but ended up just sounding concerned.

“I did!” Veneziano pressed their foreheads together; Romano could have counted the tears clinging to his eyelashes if he felt up to any such nonsense. “I started over and over and over… I even got out the children’s cookbook you gave me as a gag gift in 1973 and I followed the instructions to the letter! But I can’t cook anything!”

For a moment, Romano couldn’t decide whether he should feel unsettled or touched that Veneziano had kept his stupid joke present for all these years. He decided on unsettled.

There were a few traits which were so deeply ingrained in the nations that they had become part of them. Greece liked to sleep, Germany was a potato-eating asshole and North Italy was an excellent cook.

Romano knew for a fact that Veneziano’s people weren’t the problem.

He had had lunch in a South Tyrol restaurant and indulged shamelessly in his brother’s food. It wasn’t that Veneziano didn’t cook specialties from allover northern Italy all the time, but his pride wouldn’t permit Romano to ask for dishes that didn’t originate in Italy, such as South Tyrol’s Austrian-influenced meals. Since Veneziano thought he hated them, he rarely ever indulged his cravings for these foods when Romano was at home. Stupid Veneziano didn’t understand that the more their people grew into a coherent nation, the closer their connection with the other brother’s people grew, right down to food cravings.

Never mind. If Veneziano’s people weren’t the cause…

Romano eyed his little brother warily. “What the fuck did you do to yourself?!”

“Ve~” Veneziano sighed unhappily and cuddled up to him. “I don’t know. I just can’t do anything right today. The pasta dough was runny and I burned the tomato sauce and I put salt instead of sugar into the fruit salad and I spilled the flour and…”

At that point, Romano tuned out his brother’s tale of kitchen woes.

“…and I’m hungry!”

“Idiot,” Romano scoffed without heat. He got up, with Veneziano still clinging to him like a human-shaped octopus, and toasted a few slices of oil-coated ciabatta in the oven. The oven looked as if something had exploded in it, but Romano was beyond caring that heating up the dirty oven would just make the dirt harder to remove. He chopped up the only surviving tomato, mixed it with some musty dried basil he found at the back of their spice rack and a shot of olive oil. All the while, he grumbled about Veneziano being useless.

Veneziano whimpered pathetically and pressed his face against Romano’s back.

Add some salt and pepper, put the tomato mixture on the toasted bread. He placed the plate on the table and shot a glare over his shoulder. “Well? Aren’t you going to eat?”

“Wah! Romano’s the best brother in the world!” Veneziano hugged him with all his strength and started soaking his shirt again.

Romano felt his cheeks burn. “Ch… chigi!” He shrugged Veneziano off roughly and stalked to the sink. “Stop bawling and eat! I won’t clean up your mess by myself!”

 

At the far end of Europe, a certain blond nation with very prominent eyebrows cackled to himself as he shed his wizard robe.

“That’s going to teach Italy to say my food tastes like crap!”

The end


End file.
